


The Willow Witch

by yknowfromtv



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Gen, Going with the flow, Locklyle, Plot, Possession, might get a little dark?, original characters for plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29991012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yknowfromtv/pseuds/yknowfromtv
Summary: Things are going terribly awry for Lockwood & Co. Surprise surprise. But when other agency members begin going missing, it appears there may be something bigger going on. Unprecedented and dangerous Visitor behaviors, attacks from the living, and a shadowed, sketchy cult thrown in the mix seem to have it out for them. And Lucy is stuck in the middle.________________________________This is a loosely-planned attempt to start writing again. Very plot driven, I kind of go overboard with detailed, plotted fanfics. I forget it's a fanfic. Oops.
Relationships: Lucy Carlyle/Anthony Lockwood
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, yes, I had this posted under a different account sometime last year I think? I have a really bad tendency to do this thing where I start an account, get restless/panicky about the account, delete the account, start a new account, cycle on repeat. So here I am, trying REALLY hard not to do that, and reposting what I had started on the other account. I found this in my docs and reread it a bit and kind of got re-excited about it, so let's see how this goes. Sorry to anyone who has read this bit before, and thanks!

“No, Lucy, you’re much more of a sapphire kind of gal. It offsets your dark eyes and particular shade of hair, trust me.”

“I don’t know, George, this dark red is pretty nice.”

“Burgundy, Lucy. It’s burgundy.”

“Well, what does that have to do with it? It’s pretty.”

“I still think the sapphire suits you.”

“Mm. Maybe. I don’t know -”

Lockwood, who had been setting up the iron chains and general basic defenses all on his lonesome in the center of the freshly polished department store’s floor, peeked up from his crouched position. His usual amiable expression was marred by a strained mockery of his regular bright smile, and his dark eyebrows couldn't have been higher than if he'd seen George in a suit and tie. Or freshly bathed. Or not hungry. Or -

Never mind. Point made.

"I think," Lockwood began, his voice a tad too sweet, a tad too light, "a cute rose quartz pink with some dusting of glitter would be just the thing."

George and I stopped rifling through the hangers of gowns and flowy skirts. We looked at one another. "Really?"

"No, not really! Now would one of you pass me that light, or do you still need help finding some jewelry to go with your pretty dress, George? I suggest diamonds. They're timeless, so the fashion zines say."

George obliged, albeit grudgingly, quietly letting the remark slide. We both put the dresses back, George giving his sleeveless, open-backed sapphire choice a pointed look. I got one last look at the lace collar and sleeves on the burgundy dress, my choice. Maybe I could come back tomorrow and decide. I’m sure Holly would tag along. She loved telling me what to wear. 

George puttered over and pouted as he handed the flashlight to Lockwood, muttering with a put-off air, "It's not for me. It's for Lucy for . . . for . . . Hey, Lucy, what is it for?"

I stared at both of them blankly. "The Halloween thing.”

They stared back. But more blankly.

“You know. The party you yourself accepted invitations to, Lockwood. The thing that you did without consulting me, George, or Holly. I’m sure you know the one.” I shrugged my backpack off, casually avoiding eye contact as I bent over and unzipped the back pocket. A familiar green glow oozed out softly. “Or perhaps not. There’s just so many.”

No one said anything. I continued unpacking spare chains. Lockwood cleared his throat. Somewhere, deep within the store, a bathroom tap _plip, plip, plipped_ into a porcelain sink. 

It was a quiet night so far. A fairly standard case in a fairly standard department store. George had researched the morning and most of the afternoon away to come up with only one possible Visitor, so Holly had packed us for a light night and stayed back. Not that we weren’t prepared, as we knew never to underestimate a possible spectre, but it was with a sprightly atmosphere that we’d waltzed into the two story building, rapier hands relaxed and not an ounce of creeping fear or malaise to speak of. 

The interior decorator had had a fairly unimposing idea in mind when designing the place. Upon entering, the white, beige, and grey color scheme left an ashy, bland taste on the tongue. As far as first impressions go, it was already delightful. Another look revealed the stairs to the far back on the right, while the single elevator sat on the left corner opposite. The setup was nothing special: Men’s Wear to the left, Children’s in the back, Women’s on the right, seasonal in front, and formal, fancy stuff in the center. Not a single spider, spiderweb, or dust bunny to be reported. No characteristic cold spots. Completely, utterly normal. Yet, oddly enough, while the ground floor was up-to-date and in with the trends, the top floor consisted of clean, sad-looking, fifty-years-behind furniture that nobody seemed to care for, besides for a ritual Sunday dusting. Not a piece appeared to have even been sat in by a bored husband or a restless child, as so happens in these types of stores. In any case, it was no Aickmere’s. That was for certain.

“She has a point, you know,” George said, startling us both, and not just by his sudden decision to break the silence.

Lockwood’s head shot up. “She does not!” 

He cut off after catching sight of my raised brow. He cleared his throat again and ducked his head back down, finishing his last check through his belt’s supplies. “I mean, I suppose I should have at least mentioned it. Before accepting. But it was a formal invitation from Barnes. _Barnes._ How was I to say no?”

I turned the valve that served as the gateway and only divider between the skull and I, feeling the subtlest of changes in the air as I did so - the presence of another in my mind’s space. “Easy. No. Just like that.”

It could have been the dimness of our flashlights, a trick of the light, a passing shadow, but I swore I saw Lockwood roll his eyes. “Yes, but you say it all the time. You and that word are thick as thieves.”

“No, we’re - “ I stopped. Heat rose in my cheeks.

_“Ha! You know, that Lockwood isn’t too high up on my scale - or any scale, for that matter. Look at him, you’d think he was one of those lanky Raw-Bones you dolts are always running screaming from. But I’ll admit, he got you there.”_

I glared down at the molten liquid in the jar, the face constantly shifting and melting around its encasement but somehow still managing to look smug. 

“Shut up,” I grumbled, making sure to keep it below my breath.

Lockwood straightened up, clapped his hands, and rubbed them together, his coat draped ever-elegantly about his thin, tall frame. Even in the faint light his eyes had that hard glint to them, all lively and energetic, a testament that whatever happened tonight was exactly what was supposed to happen, because it was Lockwood, and nothing that was not supposed to happen ever happened to him. It was that simple.

At least, it seemed that simple. It never actually was, but hey. We did a pretty bang up job pretending.

Lockwood passed the chocolate around, seeming particularly antsy, more so than usual. I couldn't imagine what for, though. I Listened, pausing and taking a small breath, but got nothing. Zip. Not even an exhale. Even so, Lockwood managed to create an exhilarating sense of anticipation with just his dazzling smile and that tireless way of his, and I found myself getting swept up in the tide of it all.

"Got those readings for us, George? I’m getting a slight chill, nothing to write home about, but notable, nonetheless.” 

George dutifully held up his little notebook, not skipping a beat. “Near Men’s Wear: 54 degrees. A single step away shows 50 degrees. Weird, I guess. The real chill is around the back, near the elevator. Over there reads 40 degrees.”

Lockwood nodded contemplatively. “Quite a drop. All right, we’ll each take a section and loop around to meet back by the elevator, where Lucy and I will take it up to the second floor.”

“Wait . . . But that means - “

“Yes, George.” I pat him sympathetically on the shoulder. “You’ve got the stairs. Alone.”

“Aw, come on.”

Lockwood laughed lightly and stepped out of the iron chains, casting a glance about the room. I followed suit, branching off to the right towards Men's as Lockwood took the left towards Women's. George shuffled dejectedly to the front with the seasonal.

As we split up, Lockwood turned back to me with a lopsided grin, saying, “This time, Luce, try not to get swept down an evil hole by a rampaging Poltergeist. It may make the night go a bit smoother.”

I grinned back, giving him one of the Carlyle Grins. “By all means. But only if you don’t go jumping down after me.”

“Impossible.”

He was already turned and headed off in the opposite direction, but seconds after that word and the way he’d looked at me I was still standing in the exact same position, watching his long coat flare out behind him with the purpose of his stride. My chest constricted in a pleasantly painful manner, my stomach felt light. I turned and headed my own way, not bothering to smother the soft smile on my lips.

_“Bleh. If I could, I would throw up right now.”_

I rolled my eyes. “You’re just jealous.”

_“Of what? Lockwood’s blatant disregard for the people who care for him and his suicidal tendencies? Yup. I’m just oozing unresolved pining for the twit’s dazzling mental and emotional instability.”_

“Like I said. Jealous.”

The skull made a scathing noise that sounded vaguely of an odd mixture between a scoff and the audible manifestation of a grimace, but said no more. I turned my attention back to the case at hand, letting a slow, steady breath escape me. No cold puffs of air were visible. Temperature was holding firm. My boots made muffled _fwump_ sounds as I stalked forward, my feet light. All may be quiet and calm now, but I wasn’t taking chances. Silence could be deceiving.

It could be, but as I walked slowly down the aisle, stopping every few steps to do the routine readings and checks, it seemed highly unlikely. I wasn't getting so much as a three degrees difference from every five foot area, easily blamed on the A/C. It was going to be a slow night.

Making my way to the rendezvous without incident, I leaned back against the wall next to the elevator to wait for Lockwood. I couldn’t see him or George over the rows of racks and displays, instead opting to close my eyes and take a few slow breaths, hands resting lightly on the wall behind me. The department store was silent as the grave, no pun intended.

The store’s owner, Mrs. White, had not wanted us here, not for a second. To have us here would be to admit there was an issue, which there absolutely wasn’t, as she had so ardently insisted. Multiple times. No, this particular case was brought on by a couple of spooked employees going on strike until an official, permanent solution was introduced to what they decreed a “murderous threat to their personal physical and mental health.” Whatever that meant. Their employer had hired Lockwood and Co. merely to get her employees back to work as soon as possible, with as little effort as possible. 

_One. Two. Three._ Inhale. Exhale. 

I blinked and sighed. Nothing. Not even an errant emotion or tingle. This place was as haunted as an iron chain.

Just as the thought formed though, I heard a soft, muffled thud. Almost imperceptible. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Lockwood and George were both now in my line of sight, and that I’d felt the slight vibration through the wall on my hands and back, I might have passed it off as George’s natural inability to walk without incident. But I knew.

I put my hand up. 

Lockwood and George both paused without hesitation as they approached from their respective aisles. Only their eyes asked questions, but I wasn’t looking at them. My eyes and ears were focused on the ceiling above me. A ceiling that was making a very odd, very un-ceiling-like patter. I stepped forward soundlessly, matching the pacing and stride of the gentle thuds as they moved forward slowly but firmly. They stopped as soon as my left foot tapped against the foot of the first step of the stairs. The only sound was once again the _plip-plip-plip_ of a leaky tap.

The air was practically quicksand, heavy and resistant against my limbs, my chest. I glanced back to see George and Lockwood following in my wake, silent and careful. The glint was back in Lockwood’s eye. It had snuffed out when the place had appeared empty, but it had merely been a facade, a trick of the light. That glint sparked something inside me, and I turned back to the issue at hand, ready for whatever had made the mistake of existing here tonight.

As we made our way up the stairs, the journey seeming to last an eternity, I wondered absently if Lockwood and George could hear the footsteps too. It hadn’t occurred to me that it might just be me.

The second floor of the store was dimmer and more crowded than the first, making every shadow a suspect to my distrust of the abrupt silence. Now that I had heard something, nothing was something as well. The calm before the storm, so to speak. 

Lockwood strode forward between George and me, stepping back into leadership with the ease of pulling on a well-worn coat. He was in his element.

Looking both of us in the eyes while simultaneously never letting his gaze stray from our surroundings, Lockwood pointed a curt nod straight down the aisle directly in front of us, toward the pre-set chains and various precautions taken before settling in for the night. I gave a terse nod back, an affirmation, and Lockwood gave the indication for me to take the left, George the right, and he would take center, regrouping back at base. All said with a look and another nod.

Without so much as a hiss, all three of us drew our rapiers and set off. 

I tiptoed down the aisle, passing couch after lamp after side table. The silence was starting to get to me a little. A single icy nail trailed a thin line down my spine, sending a small shiver through me that I stifled immediately. No time to let uneasiness set in. My eyes scanned my immediate area, and I took a chance by resting my rapier in my left hand at hip level, allowing my right hand to gently glide along the fabrics and cold metals of the furniture I passed. I wasn’t picking up on anything, but there was alway a possibility. 

_“Hey.”_

I nearly screamed. It took a split second of standing still and a couple of deep, steadying breaths to get my heartrate back to semi-functional, but I kept moving forward.

“What?” I hissed. “This had better be go - “

_“There’s someone else here.”_

In the time it took for that simple sentence to pass through my ears, connect with my brain, and alert my limbs, there was a black figure materializing before me. In the time it took my eyes to process and connect the dots that this figure was, in fact, not a Visitor and had actually emerged not from the wall itself, but from the shallow recess of the public restrooms a foot in front of me to the left that I had so astutely missed, there was a hand over my mouth and a very sharp something at my throat.

“Don’t. Make. A sound.”

Cold and venomous. But young.

I took in what I could, doing so without much of a thought. I noted the two-inch height difference between what I assumed was him and I, the darker complexion of the exposed wrists, the slight figure revealed by the drape of the black cloak. Nothing of the face was illuminated in the shadowed room. The hand disappeared from my mouth and into the figure’s pitch-black cloak. I knew it was coming, but the moment I breathed in to shout for Lockwood or George, the blade against my throat pushed in, drawing blood, if the instant sting and warm trail down my neck were any indicators.

“I said don’t.”

The right hand reappeared from the cloak, an inky substance coating the thumb of the stranger. I jabbed quickly at their left hand that held the blade and heard the reassuring clatter of something metal skitter across the tile floor. A voice that seemed separated by tunnels said something, shouting perhaps, but there was no time for thought when that same hand pushed back at me and grasped my throat, tight and angry. This was no warning.

I scratched at the hand, prying and smacking, but my left arm was pinned down in the assailant’s own vise-like grip as they etched something on the inside of my wrist, their thumb digging in and leaving a burning trail in its wake. I tried to kick, but there was no form, no precision, just desperate flailing. They were muttering, hissing, chanting in tongues, a short sentence that lasted too long as the pounding in my head threatened to knock me out if the lack of oxygen didn’t first. I couldn’t tell if it was the thud of approaching footsteps counting out a frantic beat in my ears or just my heartbeat as it panicked to find a reprieve. 

I blinked, gasping for air, suddenly finding it was there. And that I was on the ground. And that there was still a dark figure looming over me and hell if I wasn’t going to give them a parting gift. I took a sloppy but swift swing, hoping the double vision wouldn’t affect my accuracy too far off the mark. The blossoming of another pain in my right hand as solid contact was made was good enough.

Until the figure spoke, that is.

 _“Ow!_ God, Lucy, what in the seven bloody - !”

I blinked hard and pushed myself back against the wall where I sat, coughing and trying to establish a point of grounding for my still-whirling head. I felt nauseous. 

Another figure came sprinting onto the scene, the coat trailing dramatically behind the shadow belonging to none other than Lockwood himself. He stopped short. 

“Lucy! I understand George can be a real thorn in the backside sometimes, but now is hardly the time to settle scores - save it for the next team meeting, when we have more time to develop a solid alibi.”

I was in no mood to play along with his jokes. George moaned.

Lockwood sensed the gravity. Even his shadow looked abashed as his shoulders dropped. “Right. So, besides witnessing that stupendous whopper on George’s poor fragile head, what happened? I thought I heard something metal fall and . . .” He leaned down to help me up, flicking on the light he’d had in his pocket. “Oh my . . . Lucy, is that blood? Are you okay?” 

His usually gentle-looking fingers were the worst assault on my tender neck as he brushed them lightly across where I’m sure the figure’s fingerprints were developing in violent shades of blue and purple. I winced back, shutting my eyes briefly, and pushed his hand away.

George let out another groan, a hand covering his face just below his left eye as he patted around for his glasses. He found them, intact, thankfully. I don’t think I’d be able to handle footing George’s eyewear bill on top of all that’s happened tonight.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m just peachy, thank you so much,” he said.

I ignored him, sighing weakly. It sounded like a broken whistle. 

“Intruder,” I muttered, finding it was all I could - and wanted to - manage right now.

The room had stopped spinning enough for me to remember that my wrist hurt too. Or it should. The glorious numbness of shock was beginning to set in pretty thick. I held it up to the light, finding an obsidian symbol depicting an hourglass-like image with sharp angles instead of curves and three horizontal lines slashed across it. There were angry welts following the image. Already knowing the outcome, but trying anyway, I rubbed at the mark. It didn’t even smear. For all the world it looked like a fresh tattoo. And it still burned slightly.

Lockwood’s long fingers joined my own in holding my wrist, both of us looking down at it like it was some unknown specimen we were trying to decipher. He trailed a thumb across the sensitive skin, tracing the stark contrast of the black lines, and I glanced up to see a hodgepodge of emotions and secret thoughts flitting across and converging on his pale face. Where his hands touched my skin and his thumb traced the pattern, it felt . . . weird. Tingly. But numb. As soon as I became aware of it, a wave of panic washed over my chest, constricting my lungs and sending a rush of adrenaline to my limbs my stomach roiling _frustration guil tangeritsmyfault_

and 

then 

my fists were clenching, my nails broke the skin of my palms and time slowed again. Something in my mind mumbled hazily, fading, as if sailing away further into the distance, until it blended into the horizon, until it was a speck and then no more. _Occult it can’t_ _be . . ._ _why. . ._ _._ _dispelled . . ._

Lockwood took his hands away, instead putting one on my shoulder and shaking me slightly. A fuzziness I didn’t quite care to dispel blanketed my mind. I was exhausted. Drained.

What was that.

What. Was. _That._

I flinched when his voice broke me out of the momentary fog. He was staring at me, one of the emotions shoving its way to the forefront on his knit brow. Concern.

“You okay, Luce? You froze up there.” He paused, eyes searching my face for something. I don’t think he found it.

After whatever that had been, I was ready for a long, long nap. It was like every last drop of energy had been put forth into channeling that episode, and now there wasn’t enough left for myself to feel or think anything other than, oddly enough, the last thing that should have been on my mind.

I looked up at the boys’ puzzled, concerned faces, a look of consternation on my own. In a hoarse whisper that scraped my vocal chords like a cheese grater, I made a staggering revelation.

“The sapphire dress is a no, then.”


	2. Chapter 2

The case was as good as wrapped up, as far as Lockwood was concerned. Without a word he set to packing our stuff up, a brooding air hanging over his shoulders. He kept glancing sideways at me as I leaned against some clothing racks, but doing so in such a way that I think he thought was discrete. It wasn’t, but I politely acted as much.

After cleaning things up and briefly sweeping the room, we trudged downstairs. The only sound was that of the skull and his snide comment,  _ “Well, at least it wasn’t a hole in the floor this time, eh?”  _

I readjusted my backpack in a less-than-gentle manner, a twinge of satisfaction at the muffled,  _ “Hey!” _

It was quickly apparent that questions were not going to happen quite yet. I could see how Lockwood yearned to badger me with hows and whys in the way he repeatedly would take a breath and look at me, as if preparing to speak, but would pause and turn back at the last second. I had some questions I would like to ask as well, especially when Lockwood firmly stated that we would not be alerting authorities nor anyone else, besides Holly, of the proceedings of tonight. The hard tone he’d said this with told me all I needed to know: he knew something about the attacker and did not plan on telling us. 

I nodded and agreed for compliancy’s sake. For now. 

George, who had been putting away the last of the chocolate - in his stomach, to be precise - had been shifting from foot to foot for the past five silent minutes.

“So . . . are we just throwing in the proverbial towel? Tell Mrs. White we couldn’t fulfill our end of the contract and walk away? Or am I missing something?”

Lockwood came over, still walking brusquely, and put a hand on my elbow. Like I was some old woman in need of help crossing a street. I pursed my lips and allowed it as we all left the store - at least he was within grabbing distance if he suddenly decided to take off after some shadow. It wouldn’t be the first.

“No, George. We’ll inform Mrs. White that the job was fulfilled contractually, because we did do our job. The fact of the matter is, there just weren't any Visitors to begin with.” He glanced at me sideways. “That much was evident.”

George’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Hold on.” They widened. “You’re saying . . .”

Lockwood didn’t even look at him.

The only giveaway in his expression was the thin line of his lips and his set jaw. Even if I could have pushed past the pain in my throat, it wouldn’t have mattered. When he got like this, there was no drawing him out of his thoughts until he was ready to reveal whatever concoction he was brewing.

We’d reached Portland Row. As we waited for Holly to let us in, Lockwood’s grip on my elbow tightened slightly, as if he half expected a last minute ambush. I found that all I was really worried about was a shower and sleep. Especially sleep. 

“You’re all back early. Really early. Did it go that well?” Holly asked, placing our rapiers in the bin by the door. She paused, worry pulling her eyebrows together when George stepped into the soft light of the kitchen. “Oh, George, are you alright? What happened, did you trip?”

I saw him glance subtly at me for a second, but I kept my head down as Holly hurried to get a washcloth and a bag of frozen peas. 

George said, “Uh, yeah. Something like that.”

Holly frowned, sensing the reservation, but let it slide as she brought the cloth to the red gash beneath George’s already-darkening eye, murmuring, “Well, at least it doesn’t look like stitches will be needed. You must have fallen pretty hard.”

He caught my eye again. “Yeah. Too hard.”

We all followed her into the kitchen, where the scent of fresh toast and eggs greeted us. Holly looked comfortable and beautiful, as always, in her casual blue sweater dress with a lace neckline, her hair in a simple matching lace headband. She bustled us in, relieving me of my backpack and - bless her perfect well-dressed heart - turning the valve on the skull’s jar before draping a cloth over its molten green ooze.

It wasn’t until I heard a soft, sharp gasp while Lockwood was irritatingly helping me to a kitchen chair that I realized Holly still had to be caught up on events. I probably looked like hell warmed over.

I sighed internally. I didn’t want to be down here when George retold the story in a fantastical, embellished way that would put his beloved mystery romance novels to shame. There would probably be a spontaneous explosion or two, and George would have gotten his blossoming shiner after taking the three assailants on alone. I got up without warning, headed toward the stairs.

“Uh,” George stammered, searching for the right words, “We kinda, well, uh, we were attacked.”

“Really? I thought George said it was a Level One, at most,” Holly began, glancing back at me. I wasn’t quick enough on the stairs. “Are you alright?”

Lockwood shook his head, saying, “No, not that kind of attack. A living attack.”

Holly’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide. I sighed and turned around, rejoining the others at the table with an unceremonious flop, resting my head on my arms. I know I probably looked like a pouty toddler, but I think I'm entitled to a little bit of pout right now.

Holly, to her credit, didn’t stare or begin pestering me with questions, instead returning to laying out the late night meal with solemn energy. George multitasked, opening a marker with his teeth and spitting the cap on the table as he held the peas to his eye, glasses askew. He had yesterday’s paper sprawled before him, tea rings forming concentric circles here and there, jotting something down from it with fervor. My eyes roamed slowly to Lockwood, who wasn’t doing much but staring intently at the tabletop and sipping his tea every now and then, an absent habit. 

Holly set the last plate down and took a seat herself, picking daintily at her food for a whopping four seconds before she looked at Lockwood, me, then George. “So. Is anyone going to tell me what happened? Or am I just supposed to will it from your minds with telepathy?”

When Lockwood didn’t even look up, Holly’s lips pursed. I waited. A dull thud and Lockwood’s little yelp of pain only a moment later led me to believe Holly may have used a more forceful tactic to obtain his attention, but I wasn’t complaining.

“What? What is it?” he griped, rubbing his shin. “Sorry. I was . . . thinking.”

Holly raised a brow. “Oh? Hadn’t noticed.”

Silence.

“Well?” 

“Well what?”

“Well, what happened!”

“Oh.” Lockwood shrugged, taking a sip of his tea. “Dunno. I wasn’t there.”

Holly turned on George. 

“Don’t kick me, please! All I got was a punch to the face.”

Holly perked up. “So you saw who it was?”

George deflated. “Well. No.” He glanced at me. “Lucy punched me. In the face.”

Round two, silence.

Lockwood put down his cup, which he’d been using as an excuse for avoiding eye contact, and cleared his throat. His fingers tapped a rhythmic mess on the table as he said, “And I’m afraid Lucy won’t be able to shed much light on the situation. At least, not yet.”

Holly looked at me quizzically. I sat up and pulled my turtleneck collar down just a little bit, and she made a little gasp and brought a hand to her mouth. I didn’t like all the eyes on me, so I quickly resumed my previous flopped over position.

Holly’s concern was palpable as she opened her mouth to say something else, but just then, the phone rang. At two in the morning. We all exchanged looks. 

Lockwood pushed himself up from the table, looking as tired as I felt. “I’ll get it. I don’t know who they think they are calling in a case so late, but they’re in for a rude awakening.”

As Lockwood busied himself with that, Holly’s attention turned back to me, a frown still on her lips. I wanted to tell her to calm down, it’s not that bad, all that nice lying stuff, but I settled for an apologetic half-smile and a shrug. Her frown deepened. 

Just when I was about to resort to doing something drastic, like patting her hand comfortingly or something, George rushed in to save the day. With depressing, gloomy news. Yay.

“I know tonight’s been a bit of a mess, but listen to this,” he mumbled, sitting his bag of peas down to grab the newspaper, “I stumbled across an article about some recent missing persons cases across London. Seems like there’s been a gradual increase over the past few weeks, but here’s the weird part: every single one of them has been an agency member.”

Holly’s frown redirected at him. She leaned forward a little. “Wait. What? How many?”

George was getting excited now that someone was expressing interest. He tapped at a scribble on the Think Cloth with the tip of the marker. “Five, as of yesterday.”

“That’s awful -”

The telltale sound of the phone being hung up cut through Holly’s words. We all waited quietly as Lockwood came back, running a hand through his mussed hair. His eyebrows furrowed and his mouth in a thoughtful line, he looked like what I imagined a young Sherlock Holmes to look like, lost in thought and kind of oblivious.

He looked up. “That was Kipps.”

George choked on his toast. “Kipps?  _ The  _ Kipps? As in, Quill Kipps?”

Lockwood swatted a hand dismissively. “No, the other Kipps, the one who works at the corner store - Yes, Quill Kipps! It was a rather . . . uncharacteristic call.” He leaned back against the doorway, crossing his arms. “He requested our company on a mission tomorrow night.”

“What?” Holly and George said in unison, and which I clearly and emphatically communicated through a distasteful grimace.

Lockwood threw his hands up in a placating gesture, pushing off the wall and coming back to the table to pick up his (probably) cold tea. He took a quick drink. “Something’s gone wrong. Sounded pretty worried. It was weird. But he specifically requested our presence, and even more specifically, he requested you, Luce.” 

Everyone looked at me. This really needed to stop. 

“Something about needing your skills and Kat and some other scatterbrained dribble.” He took another sip and grimaced, placing the cup back down. “He was rather unintelligible.”

“What else do you expect from an unintelligent life form?” George muttered. Holly hit him lightly on the arm.

There was a moment of weighted quiet, thick with individual thoughts and worries. I got up and started grabbing plates and cups, just to have something to do, and the others moved to help as well. It seemed there would be no other discussion on this topic, nor any others. We made quick, silent work of it, then bid each other subdued goodnights, all wordlessly agreeing to dive into this mess in the morning. 

And then I was alone.

I sat on the edge of my bed, feeling fresh and clean finally after a long warm shower. But not  _ clean _ clean. I turned my wrist over, gazing at the ink black marking. Despite furious scrubbing, scratching, and a ridiculous amount of soap, the bloody thing was just as dark and permanent as before. And of course, as much as it sucked, bruises don’t just vanish after a shower and a change of clothes.

I flopped back. This was becoming a habit. 

A knock at the door had me bolting upright as I turned my head to see Holly peeking in nervously. 

“Sorry. I don’t mean to barge in, but . . .” 

Her eyes flickered to my neck. She smiled sheepishly and held up a spare first aid kit she must have hidden somewhere in the bathroom, seeing as how Lockwood probably didn’t even know what one looked like, and a mug. I scooted over.

She set the mug down on the side table, saying it was warm milk with honey. “For your throat.” She smiled. “I noticed you didn’t touch your tea or food.” 

The yellow lamplight from the side table illuminated what she thought I couldn’t see in the dark shadows of the room as she sat beside me. Her eyes told me her worry, and it was just a matter of waiting for her to speak up. I knew Lockwood had told her everything, more than what had been said when I was in the room, and I felt abruptly dumb. Not wanting to risk speaking yet though, I pushed the misplaced feeling aside and focused on her practiced hands as she sat next to me and used antiseptic on the cut and placed a small square of gauze across it, then used a small length of white bandages to wrap around it a few times. I felt like a cheap store-bought mummy.

“It’s a shallow cut, but just to be safe, we’ll use these wrapping bandages. I fear the stick-on ones won’t stay very well when out and about,” she explained softly, almost to herself. 

She moved on to my wrist and hands, which I pulled away at first. I didn’t really want to go parading this symbol around, but the way she flinched made me feel bad, so I offered both hands in apology.

“Hm.” She hummed, running a gentle finger across the crescents in my palms from when I’d unintentionally clenched them a little too hard. Her eyes never wandered to the impromptu tattoo. “There’s not much I can do for these besides some ointment, so I’ll just wrap them a little bit for the night. Lucky these aren’t that deep as well.”

She did as she said she would, impossibly gentle all the while, and gathered her things when she finished. But I knew from the way she hesitated that she wanted to say something, so I waited. 

She surprised me when she gestured at my wrist, saying, “I can wrap that too, if you want.”

I glanced down at it. I supposed I didn’t want to have to be reminded every single time I saw it, and it would keep outsiders from questioning. Not to mention Lockwood and George from staring. It was only a moment’s hesitation, but I nodded.

Holly did so and got up to leave. I grabbed her hand before she left though, and gave it a little squeeze, hoping she understood. She smiled in return and left.

I was alone again.


End file.
